Children Once
by crossing
Summary: Ida Graham, a shy, bookish, naive girl, learns the price of innocence the hard way. Please read and review! Atticus/future wife and Arthur Radley/Atticus' future wife
1. Childhood

Atticus' wife once went through the same thing that her daughter did as she came of age. A blithe yet shy and naive girl of nineteen, Ida Graham has been sheltered her entire life by her doting parents and by the whimsical fantasy worlds in her head. However, when she falls in love for the first time and begins a secret friendship with a lost, tormented man, she must come to terms with the town's cruelty and ignorance and find a way to shed her innocence without losing her goodness and without ending up broken like Arthur Radley.

ooo

There have been A LOT of Atticus/Miss Graham fics these days, so I wanted to post my take on her. My view on her is a bit different than most of the other ones. While my Miss Graham is as intelligent and boyish as the rest, she is shy, bookish, and naïve, as well.

Also, I couldn't come up with a good title, so I just borrowed from the quote at the beginning of the book.

So anyway, here it goes…

Languid on the living room couch, Ida idly realized that the days had never been as happy as these.

Everything about that Maycomb summer afternoon was lazy, but there was something about the somnolence that Ida loved. As she gazed out the window into the street, the pane seemed to distort and slow down time. Through the glass, Ida could see men trekking home from work, trudging sluggishly like straining horses bridled to loaded wagons. The ladies across the street reposed on their porches, their fans beating up and down, up and down, in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the pigeon gliding through the sharp, cloudless blue sky seemed to dally.

"Inspired yet?"

Ida turned her head slightly. Her mother, a short woman with a round face, was behind her. Ida smiled slightly as she took in her appearance. The sweltering heat was so oppressive that even her conservative mother was wearing a skirt that only went halfway down her shin.

In response to her question, Ida sighed, "I've been staring out the window for the past hour. And I'm afraid the answer is still 'no.'"

Her mother smiled fondly.

"It's all right. You're not writing for a deadline or anything."

"But I hate moments when I want to write but can't," muttered Ida.

Chuckling, her mother replied, "I know. But if you stare out the window any longer, your eyes will pop out. Come and have lunch."

She smiled as she added, "I made _special _Earl Grey tea to go with our meal today."

Ida groaned.

"Not Earl Grey _again_."

"Well, I'll make some for dinner as well if you don't come and eat right now."

The girl reluctantly pulled herself to her feet.

"Oh, all _right_."

She trudged after her mother out of the room.

ooo

After Ida had finished the meal, she placed her tray in the kitchen sink and hastily switched on the water. She breathed out with content as the exquisitely cold water began to run over her burning hands. Then, slowly, she began scrubbing and rinsing her bowl and utensils.

Finally, when she was done with those, she picked up her glass. She carefully yet clumsily cleaned the inside with her rag, then shook the glass to get the water out.

Before she knew it, the glass slipped out of her hands, tumbled to the ground, and shattered loudly into pieces.

Ida blinked. She ran a hand over her forehead.

"Oh, lord, not today," she whispered.

At that moment, Ida's mother rushed in.

_Not now, not now._

"Ida," she inquired, "did you break this?"

The girl gazed down at her feet.

"Yes, ma. I'm sorry."

Her mother inhaled sharply.

"We just bought this last week, and do you remember why? We bought it to replace the other glass you so courteously broke."

Ida protested, "I was trying to be careful, honest. It just—"

"Well, obviously, you weren't!"

"But ma..." Ida began.

Then, finding argument useless, Ida broke off.

"I'm really sorry, ma," she finished lamely. "I'll buy us another one—with my own money."

Her mother grumbled, "It's not that we don't have enough money to buy an infinite amount of glasses. It's just that there isn't a_ point_ in buying an infinite amount of glasses when you can use a single one carefully and keep it for a long time."

"I promise I won't break anymore glasses. At least, I'll try not—"

"And what has our Ida done now?"

Both Ida and her mother turned. Ida's father entered the room, amusement written on his face as usual.

With a huff, her mother commanded, "Don't come in here, Phillip. There are glass shards on the floor everywhere."

Ida, biting her lip, took another brief glance at the floor. Glittering fragments were scattered all over the kitchen.

Phillip, also scanning the room, chuckled.

"A glass again, Georgina?"

"Yes, Phillip," Georgina replied, both annoyed and placated by her husband's amused reaction. "It was another glass."

Phillip flashed a smile at his remorseful daughter.

"Here, baby, let me help you clean this all up. It'll be an all-evening job if you do it alone. I'll go get the broom."

As Ida knelt down and began to scoop glass shards into her hand, Phillip started toward the door. His wife stopped him with a murderous glare.

"Don't you try to help her one bit, Phillip. She needs to learn the consequences of breaking things so that she won't do it again."

"Of course she'll do it again, Georgina. She's been doing it all her life. That's just the way God made her. So we might as well help her clean up whenever she breaks things, because she'll never stop doing it, no matter how we try to prevent it."

With cold conviction, Georgina stated, "We must make her learn, Phillip. You must _not _help her clean this up."

Phillip raised his eyebrows.

"Come on, Georgie. She's nineteen. No use in trying to teach her anything at this age."

Ida's mother, completely ignoring him, glanced coldly down at her daughter.

"Ida, you may not leave the kitchen until you've cleaned up this mess," she pronounced.

_I knew it._

The girl blinked. Her head snapped up.

"But ma, it's nearly five."

"Good. You'll miss your regular five o'clock walk. Hopefully you'll learn something from that."

Scrambling to her feet, Ida protested, "But it—my walk, I mean—today, I—"

Her father raised an eyebrow.

"What's the matter, girl? We may not like it, but your mother is the boss of our household. We have to do what she tells us to do, and that means that you'll have to skip your walk today."

Ida nodded slowly and quickly turned her eyes away.

Phillip soothed, perplexed at her behavior, "It's just one walk. Missing one day won't kill you, will it?"

Georgina turned to her husband.

"If she doesn't want to talk, just let the girl be. There's no way she'll go on her walk today, anyhow."

Georgina began to sweep out of the room, her confused husband in tow. Phillip glanced back at Ida once as he was about to be dragged through the door.

"Try not to break any more glasses, all right? You know your mother's temper. And plus, you'll never get a man this way."

Suddenly, Ida's eyes swerved to meet her father's. Her hands flew to her hips.

"What do you mean, Pa? Of course I will!"

For a moment, her mother and father stared at her, surprised by her outburst. Then, Georgina's angry expression melted into a tender smile.

"Ida," she inquired, "do you have your eye on someone?"

_Not this question._

The girl glanced at her feet. She was silent for a long moment.

"No," she muttered finally, cheeks burning. "Definitely _not_."

After a moment, her arms fell out of their akimbo.

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "And I had something planned with him at five today."

"Oh, at last!" breathed Phillip, breaking into a wide beam.

He glanced at his wife and nudged her.

"Let her off," he murmured. "Just this once."

Georgina didn't need telling. Beaming, she told her daughter gently, "If you had something planned, I think you'd better set out now—it's nearly time. You can tell us about your man when you come back. But be careful if you pass the Radley place."

Usually, Ida would have countered her warning with "Ma, I'm _nineteen_." At that moment, though, all Ida could do was smile with pure relief.

"All right."

Phillip assured, "Georgie and I will clean this all up, won't we?"

Ida's mother readily nodded, and Ida hesitated for a moment. Then, springing to her feet, she enfolded both of her parents in a happy embrace. She bounded out the door like a rabbit.

ooo

As Ida ambled down the street, sweating from the roasting heat, she deliberately kept her pace slow, trying to keep her repressed excitement from leaking through her calm demeanor. She glanced around at the quaint, quietly inviting houses. She missed Montgomery, sure, but something about the charming simplicity of Maycomb appealed to her. Ida always needed a fresh experience, a new adventure, something different to look at.

Finally, she was nearing the Radley place. That was usually the area where her path crossed the man's. As she approached the house, she slowed her pace to take it in once more. Plants of all sorts, some uprooted and some proliferating wildly, were scattered all over the front yard. Among them lay several of the roof's shingles, either cracked or completely shattered. The grass grew only in small brown patches. All the house's windows were dark, as if no one lived there. Ida couldn't tell what color the house was supposed to be; most of its paint had peeled off.

_I wonder what really—_

"Good evening."

Ida turned.

A timid smile crossed her face.

Atticus was approaching her, tipping his hat. As usual, he was decked in crisp, smart clothing. Tall with a sharp jaw, he would have cut a frightening figure if not for his small pot belly, barely visible beneath his coat, and the twinkle in his eyes, which not even his thick glasses could obscure.

Furtively studying him once again, Ida lowered her eyes and smiled again.

"Good evening," she returned, somewhat shyly.

Beaming slyly, he asked, "And how are you, Ms. Glass-dropper?"

Ida glanced at her feet morosely.

"I did it again this evening. Ma nearly murdered me. She keeps insisting that I learn how to cook and clean properly, because she thinks I don't know a thing about keeping house. And she's right."

Atticus laughed heartily.

"Why worry about those trivialities? Any lady can learn to cook and clean, but she can't learn to be a poet, Ida."

Ida laughed.

"Poetry isn't that useful in life."

There was a drawn-out silence. Then, Atticus frowned.

"Ida, I'm sorry. I promised to bring The Idiot today for you to borrow, but I couldn't find it anywhere, even though I searched my entire house. I think I must have left it in Birmingham when I went there last week."

Smiling, Ida replied, "No matter. I've read it before, anyway. All I wanted to do was to read it a second time."

"If I find it, I'll be sure to lend it to you immediately," said Atticus quickly.

Ida shook her head.

"Oh, don't trouble yourself with trying to find it. I I can find the copy _I_ lost, I'll be sure to lend it to _you_ immediately, Mr. Finch."

"Don't bother," chuckled Atticus. The corner of his mouth was turned up.

Ida asked, after a pause, "Are you going to pose a new question today or are we going to figure out the old ones first? Because it_ is_ your turn."

Atticus threw his hands up in surrender.

"There's no way I can formulate decent, coherent questions until we pick apart those other ones," he declared, laughing. "Let's head over to my place now. We can finally have that long discussion we planned about those three terrible questions."

Ida beamed as she and Atticus strode down the street together, leaving the Radley place far behind.

ooo

Over at the Grahams', Ida's mother and father, after prayer, reluctantly started dinner without their daughter.

Her tone annoyed but her lips curled up, Georgina muttered, "God, I wonder what that girl is up to right now. Something must have happened if she's decided to be late for dinner."

Phillip agreed, nodding slowly, "Ida wouldn't miss dinner for anything."

"You sound somewhat worried, Phillip," noted Georgina, slightly amused.

Phillip laughed, "Worried? About Ida? She's nineteen, and a strong, self-asserted girl if I've ever saw one."

Then, his smile faded.

"Actually, Georgie, I'm afraid you're right."

Georgina cocked her head, putting down her fork.

"About what?"

"She has to pass that house on her walk every evening, doesn't she?"

"What house? You mean the Radley house?"

Phillip nodded, lips thin. Georgina snorted.

"You're afraid of those Radleys? They wouldn't leave their house for anything, even if they wanted to kill someone."

"But—"

Ida's father cut himself off with a sharp sigh.

"Yes," he conceded, "I suppose you're right. There's no use in believing silly town stories about that family."

However, the worry lines in his forehead grew deeper as he and his wife finished dinner and washed their plates.

Just as Phillip and Georgina returned to the dining room to wipe the table, the door swung open and hit the wall with a great crash. Ida burst in. Without a word, she raced past her startled parents. Just as she was about to tear through the other door out of the room, her mother called, "Come back here, Ida. You've missed dinner!"

Ida paused and turned around, panting. A smile that she was trying to repress tugged at her lips.

"Oh, I already ate."

Her parents exchanged a meaningful glance, and her father raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"And may I ask where?" inquired her mother.

Ida's beam burst across her face.

"At the house of an incredibly intelligent, sophisticated gentleman."

With that, Ida spun around, beginning to leave the room. Then, not able to resist talking more, she explained excitedly, "I met him the day we moved to Maycomb, when I took that walk to explore. While I was walking, he passed me on the street. He was coming home from work—he's a lawyer. He asked me if I was one of the Grahams who were moving to the town, and I told him that I was. And he just nodded and shook my hand, told me that he was pleased to meet me. Then, he went on his way. But then one day, about three months ago, I saw him holding a book—The Idiot. And I told him how much I liked that book. So we started discussing it, and we realized that we both had similar questions about. So ever since then, every time we walked past each other on the street, we'd ask each other a philosophical question—or a literary question—or a legal puzzle—or anything that struck our fancies. We'd take turns—one day he'd ask a question, and the next, I would. We've been debating over some of the questions for weeks. There were three questions in particular that have been bothering us for ages, and they're related to one another. So, we decided that we would sit down somewhere and settle those problems once and for all. That's where we were today. We didn't figure out any answers, but—"

Ida broke off, embarrassed. She smoothed out her skirt and began retreating hastily through the doorway.

"I'll go work on my poem now," she announced quickly before disappearing into the other room.

"Wait!" her mother called. "Aren't you going to tell us who this fine gentleman is? You've never told us this young man's name, you know."

Ida, reappearing in the doorway, glanced at her feet, biting her lip.

"Ma, this person is...not quite a young man."

Phillip merely looked puzzled, but Ida's mother stared at her with horror.

"Ida," she said slowly, carefully pronouncing her daughter's name, "you don't mean to say that you're in a relationship with a—"

"We're not in a relationship!" countered Ida.

By now, though, Phillip understood what had crossed Georgina's mind.

"Ida—" he began gravely.

Realizing what her parents were thinking, Ida sighed with annoyance.

"_No_. When I said that he's not a young man, I meant that he's a man, but he's not quite…young."

Ida's parents breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

"We raised you to be a good Christian," laughed Phillip shakily. "We wouldn't have it otherwise."

_Loving someone, no matter whom, shouldn't be a sin._

Ida bit her tongue.

Her mother asked, "So how old is this man exactly?"

Glad that the subject had been changed, Ida shrugged.

"I don't know his age exactly, but Maudie says he's in his thirties."

Her parents exchanged a glance filled with mock horror.

"In his thirties?" her mother demanded. "Why, that's ridiculous!"

"He's older than I am!" protested Phillip.

Georgina slapped Phillip's arm.

"Oh, please, Phillip," she reprimanded, though she was smiling.

Ida insisted, "I know thirty is _rather_ old to be a bachelor, but he's an incredible man. And if you knew him, you'd see why he's still unwed: it's because there's no lady who can—"

Abruptly, a rap sounded on the front door. The whole family groaned quietly.

"I'll get it," sighed Georgina.

Her mother slipped out of her chair and slid through the door. Phillip and Ida exchanged a glance.

"Stephanie again," they sighed simultaneously.

The two fell silent as they listened for the visitor's voice. They could hear a creak as the front door opened, then Georgina's surprised greeting.

"Why, good evening, Mr. Finch!"

_Atticus? Here?_

Ida stiffened in her chair, licking her lips.

"Mr. Finch?" her father whispered. "The lawyer?"

Ida nodded.

"He just got elected to the state legislature," she murmured.

At the door, Atticus was asking, "And you're Mrs. Graham, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes. Would you like to come inside? I'll acquaint you with my husband and my daughter."

"I believe I've met Miss Ida before. We've chatted during her walk."

Georgina was silent for a split second. Ida knew that she had figured out who Mr. Finch really was.

"I'm glad to hear that she's actually talking to people, sir," chuckled Georgina finally. "She's so shy and absorbed in the worlds she thinks up that I fear for her social life."

Atticus replied, "I don't think you ought to worry about Ida. She's a very bright young lady."

Ida couldn't hide her blush.

At that moment, her father caught on, too. A smile starting on his lips, he slowly turned to Ida for confirmation. Ida, beginning to smile, also, nodded happily.

"In fact," Atticus was continuing, "I've come to give her a book she's lent me. I realized that I promised to return it to her this week during one of her daily walks, and it's already Saturday."

Georgina replied, "Oh, that's awfully nice of you, sir. Let me fetch Ida. If you'll excuse me, Mr. Finch."

_Let me fetch Ida._

"Ma!" Ida groaned quietly, slumping in her chair.

She licked her lips as Georgina's footsteps grew louder and louder. Finally, her mother's face appeared in the doorway.

In a devilish whisper, her mother inquired, "I suppose you'd like to go out there and thank Mr. Finch yourself?"

Ida shook her head wildly.

"No, ma, no! I—"

Her father, growing serious, warned, "Ida."

With conviction, Georgina stated, "You must be polite, child. He made a special trip to our house just to return the book on time."

Phillip chuckled, "Being shy won't get you anywhere when you're in love with a—"

Ida sprang out of her chair, cutting off her father's sentence.

"All right! All right!"

She hastened out of the room.

When she neared the front door, she took one glance at Atticus, then lowered her eyes. She could her cheeks growing hot, but she tried to ignore their burning.

Almost sheepishly, Ida told him, "My parents told me that it'd be polite to say hello to you."

Atticus calmly handed her the book.

"I'm sorry I didn't return it earlier," he said.

"It's all right," she assured hastily. She stood facing him awkwardly for a moment. Then, she said, "Well, good day, Mr. Finch."

She quickly shut the door in Atticus' face. Then, she began to turn away.

_Lord, I forgot to—_

Rushing back toward the door, she flung it open. Atticus was heading back down the small pathway to their house.

"Wait, Mr. Finch!" she called.

Atticus turned back around calmly, as if he had been expecting it. A hint of amusement winked in his eyes.

"Yes, Miss Graham?"

Shyly, she said, "I think I forgot to thank you. For bringing the book, I mean."

He smiled.

"Oh, that? No problem at all, Ida. See you tomorrow."

Again, Ida hurriedly slammed the door. Then, she cursed herself for the rudeness.

_He must think I'm so high-strung._

Sighing, she turned around. She jolted when she saw her mother behind her, frowning.

"You're supposed to invite him in for tea," she whispered.

"What—"

Seeing the firm conviction in her mother's eyes, Ida groaned softly and turned back around. Slowly, with her eyes trained on the ground, she put her hand on the doorknob and turned it cautiously. Sucking in a breath, she apprehensively creaked open the door. Atticus was just about to disappear down the end of the street.

"Mr. Finch!" she yelled quickly.

He turned around. A wide, full smile now accompanied the twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes, Miss Graham?"

Ida squared her shoulders.

"Mr. Finch," she asked confidently, "would you like to come over for tea?"

"Tea?" asked Atticus, already beginning to stride back toward the house. "Why, that would be lovely."

A relieved smile splashed across Ida's face.

"All right. Come right inside, Mr. Finch."

"Maybe some tea will help us figure out those dastardly question, hmmm?"

Ida laughed.

"My lord, I sure hope so!"

Not able to help herself, she pulled up her skirt and ran out to meet Atticus halfway down the path. Awkwardly but courteously, she led him into the house.

When they entered the dining room, talking rapidly, they found that Georgina had already set the table. Ida pulled out a chair for Atticus, smiling, then sat down herself.

"I'm glad you've decided to stay for tea, sir," Georgina told the man. "Wait just a few minutes, and I'll have everything ready for you two."

She turned to Atticus.

"What type of tea would you like, Mr. Finch? I am quite an ardent lover of tea. I'm bound to have any kind that you may name."

"I'll have whatever tea will give you the least trouble to make, ma'am," he replied pleasantly.

Raising her eyebrows ever-so-slightly in approval, Georgina pressed, "But really, sir, you're our guest. Feel free to ask for anything you'd like. I have English breakfast, Earl Grey..."

"Oh—well then, ma'am, Earl Grey would be lovely, if you insist."

"It's my pleasure."

Somewhat slyly, she turned to her daughter.

"And you will have the same as Mr. Finch?"

Ida nodded quickly.

"Of course."

Georgina, chuckling to herself, swept out of the room. Atticus turned to Ida.

"Your mother is very nice woman," he commented.

"Yes. She is."

Being the guest, Atticus waited patiently for Ida to say something. Then, finally, Ida asked, "So how was your day?"

Then, she groaned.

"Lord. I already asked you that earlier, didn't I? I mean—"

Atticus smiled.

"Why, thank you for asking. Nothing much has changed, I suppose. And you?"

"Nothing much has changed with me, either, Mr. Finch."

The two laughed. Atticus glanced around.

"Didn't you say that you named one of your kitchen curtains Dante, since it mysteriously caught fire one day and looked like a pillar of hell?"

Ida nodded.

"I name everything in the house. I think it's just a writer's whim."

"Oh, but it's such a fine habit," assured Atticus. ""Would you care to introduce me to this 'Dante'?"

Smiling, Ida said, "All right."

She gestured at the window, which faced the street. A slightly burnt purple curtain hung limply in front of it.

"This, Atticus, is Dante."

Atticus leaned back as if admiring it.

Ida continued, "But Dante's only the name of the left side. I don't have a name for the other side of the curtain. Any ideas?"

Atticus thought for a moment. Then, he laughed.

"Why, name it Beatrice, of course."

"Beatrice!" exclaimed Ida. "What better name could there be?"

The two studied the curtain couple with content. Then, Ida sighed, "The names Dante and Beatrice are fine. It's the inferno I could do without next time."

Atticus laughed heartily. At that moment, Ida's mother appeared at the doorway, carrying a dainty tea tray. Ida's eyes widened when she saw that the one she had brought was the one strewn with embossed flowers.

_Mother..._

"The tea is ready," Georgina announced.

As Georgina placed the cups, whose designs matched the tray's, before Ida and Atticus, Ida gave her a mortified glance. Atticus, though, didn't seem to mind the femininity of the patterns.

"Thank you, Mrs. Graham," he said.

He lifted the cup to his mouth and was about to have a sip. Then, he glanced at Ida.

"If I may?"

Ida cocked her head, then realized what he was asking.

"Oh, that," she laughed, smiling. "Of course, go ahead."

Atticus promptly took a large sip of the tea. His eyebrows went up.

"Why, this has got to be some of the best Earl Grey tea I've ever tasted!"

Ida's mother smiled.

"Well, I do my best. I've been making this tea since I was a child, so it ought to be at least decent."

Heading out of the room, she said, "Call me if there's anything you two need!"

The moment her mother left the room, Ida glanced down at her tea. She smiled slightly. Georgina had brewed her English Breakfast instead.

For a while, Ida and Atticus sipped their steaming tea in silence. Then, wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin her mother had set out, Ida asked Atticus, "What's it like to work in law?"

Atticus put down his cup, surprised at the question.

"To work in law? Well, it's certainly more exciting than it may seem. There's always a new challenge, a new question. However, it's terrifying at times, honestly, since being a lawyer gives you say in deciding someone else's life."

Wistfully, Ida admitted, "I used to want to be a lawyer when I was younger—before I decided that I'd like to write. But it's difficult to get a job, as a woman."

She stopped to sip her tea.

Atticus agreed grimly, "That is precisely what I feel is the problem with this day and age—equality."

Ida sighed.

"Alabama folks are good folks, basically, but this hatred against Negroes is terrible. Women's rights, of course, is also an issue, but women aren't being lynched on the streets with no punishment to their tormentors."

Atticus sipped his tea thoughtfully.

"You know, I've always been considering what I could do about it—if there was anything anyone could do about it. But Ida—do you see any possible end to this, when even the government is saying that racism and hatred is correct?

"It seems like a vicious cycle. Every step we take forward is countered by a large step backward. I suppose there ought to be some solution, somewhere. I've come to the conclusion that, since it looks that we can't change much, we must just do what we can—we must counter hatred in small ways."

Atticus leaned in, listening intently.

"What sorts of small ways to you have in mind, Ida?"

"I mean, if I ever see—see a Negro being lynched, for example, I'll try to stop the violence somehow. Do you see what I mean?"

Nodding, Atticus sighed, "It looks like that's all we can possibly do."

By then, both of them had finished their tea. Reluctantly, Ida bid Atticus good night and led him back out the door.

ooo

I'd like to know what you think, as it is my first time writing this genre. Please leave an honest review!

By the way, I have the entire thing written. It's just a bit long, so it's broken into three chapters. I'll post the next chapter when I get a couple of reviews.


	2. Idiocy

In this chapter, I messed with the canon just a little, but not too terribly much.

For those who aren't familiar with the story of Dostoyevsky's Idiot (Go read it. Best book ever.), it's basically about a profoundly good and naïve man who is caught between true love for one woman and deep pity for another. Here's a short summary from Wikipedia. "Twenty-six-year-old Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin returns to Russia after spending several years at a Swiss sanatorium. Scorned by the society of St. Petersburgh for his idiocy, generosity and innocence, he finds himself at the centre of a struggle between a beautiful kept woman and a gorgeous, virtuous girl, both of whom win his affection. Unfortunately, Myshkin's very goodness seems to precipitate disaster, leaving the impression that, in a world obsessed with money, power, and sexual conquest, a sanatorium may be the only place for a saint." The plot of The Idiot, in a way, ties in with this fic.

So anyway, here it is…

ooo

The next evening, as Ida ambled down the street, she glanced around, expecting Atticus.

_I'm already nearing the Radley place. He should be here soon._

As usual, as she passed the sad, drooping house, she stopped for a moment to gaze and wonder. Then, she began to turn away.

At that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she noticed something strange about the Radleys' oak. Frowning, she turned her gaze to the tree. The girl blinked. Between the branches was nestled a thick book.

_It's __The Idiot__. _

Incredulously,she drew the book out of the tree, studying it.

_What on—_

"Ida!"

The girl whipped around. Atticus was approaching her, a book tucked under his arm.

"I found my copy of The Idiot," he told her quickly. "It turns out that it was inside my pillowcase the whole time. Lord knows why I put it—"

Atticus broke off when he noticed the book she was holding. His eyebrow went up.

"You found your copy?" he asked, surprised.

Ida began to reply, but Atticus, bending down to inspect it, exclaimed, "That looks to be quite a rare edition. Where did you purchase this?"

Ida shook her head slowly.

"This—this isn't mine. I just found it right here, in the branches of this tree."

Atticus frowned.

"In the branches of the _tree_?"

Ida nodded fervently.

"Really, I did!" she insisted.

"Ida, honestly, I have no idea—" began Atticus.

He turned to her suddenly.

"Are you friends with the Radleys?"

Turning her gaze to the lonesome house, Ida murmured, "No. They don't really associate with anybody, do they?"

"No, they don't," Atticus replied. "I suppose you've heard about the Radleys?"

"Of course."

She lowered her voice.

"They say that the younger son hasn't left his house for quite a while."

Atticus nodded.

"After some...incidents, Mr. Radley promised that his son would never cause trouble again. And sure enough, Arthur 's been in there for about a decade."

_About a decade…_

Softly, Ida inquired, "He's not really a madman as everyone says, is he, Atticus?"

The man's hands sunk into his pockets.

"I don't believe so. I don't believe so."

"Then why—"

"Why do people think he's a monster?"

Ida nodded, and Atticus smiled wryly.

"Well, there's nothing better to do in small towns than make up stories. And in small towns, there's nothing to make up stories about than one's own neighbors."

"It's not really the people's fault. It _is_ rather dreary in Maycomb," commented Ida dryly.

Atticus laughed.

"Yes, it is."

There was a moment of silence. Then, Ida glanced back down at the book .

"But Atticus," she asked, "what on earth should I do about this?"

The man, thinking, bit his lip.

"It must have been Arthur Radley who lent this to you," he concluded finally, "as Mr. Radley only reads the Bible and Mrs. Radley is illiterate."

Ida stared.

_Arthur Radley?_

Atticus continued, "Arthur taught himself to read as a boy. Arthur must have heard us talking about this book yesterday and decided to let you borrow his copy. I'd say gratify him by reading it, and then return it when you're through with it."

"I suppose you're right," agreed Ida. "I'll do that."

She smiled at him.

"Well, Mr. Finch, I'd best be off. Good day."

Atticus returned the smile and tipped his hat.

"See you tomorrow, Miss Graham."

And Atticus went on his way. Long after Atticus had left, though, Ida was still standing by the tree, gazing at the book in her hands.

ooo

In the Graham living room that night, Ida's parents lounged on the couch. Phillip was doing paperwork, often stopping to rub his eyes and to joke about his deteriorating vision. Georgina was knitting, chattering to her husband all the while.

"You know, Phillip," Georgina was saying, "I believe you're correct about that man."

Phillip glanced up briefly.

"Which man?"

"Arthur Radley."

Her husband set aside his papers. With interest, he leaned in and asked, "_Arthur_? Why?"

"Stephanie told me all about him today," replied Georgina. "You were right, Phillip. He has some...problems."

Phillip frowned.

"So he_ is_ dangerous."

"Yes," Georgina said solemnly. "Apparently, he came out of his house one night and ran down the street with a knife, stark naked. Stephanie herself had to calm him down and guide him back home to make sure he didn't harm anyone."

Phillip took this in silently. Finally, he said, "You make sure Ida knows that she ought to be careful around that house, all right?"

"Of course."

As her parents continued to talk in hushed tones, Ida, standing outside the living room door, clutched the book tighter to her chest. Then, she softly stole to her room.

ooo

Later that night, Ida was sprawled on her bed. The Radleys' copy of The Idiot was open before her, but she couldn't concentrate on what she was reading. Thoughts and questions were parading endlessly through her mind.

_Why would Arthur Radley leave this in the tree? Was the book really intended for me?_

Absentmindedly, she turned the page, half-heartedly trying to absorb what the words were saying. The jumbled letters were meaningless.

_Why hasn't Arthur come out for ten years, anyway? And why does everyone think that Arthur is a—_

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

_I can't let my parents see this book. _

Ida hastily snapped it shut and flipped the corner of her blanket over it. Just as she had, her father appeared at the doorway in his nightclothes.

"Ida," he asked worriedly, "have you seen my—"

He broke off, his eyes landing on the lump under the sheets. Ida, glancing down at it furtively, cursed her luck. The title was still visible.

"What are you looking for, Pa?" she asked quickly. But by then, Phillip had forgotten about his inquiry.

"He-ey," he said slowly, squinting, "that's not our book, is it?"

Ida tried to move her arm in front of the book as inconspicuously as possible. She had never been good at being sly.

Phillip ambled toward his daughter and reached for the book. He turned it over and over in his hands curiously.

"The Idiot? Didn't you lose your copy?"

He flipped through it casually, and the pages crackled painfully. Ida winced.

"Be careful with it, Pa. It—"

"Published in 1890? That's quite a rare edition. Where on earth did you get this?"

_I can't tell him._

"M-Mr. Finch," Ida fibbed quickly. "Mr. Finch gave this to me."

Her father smiled knowingly.

"Ah, Mr. Finch. I should have known."

With exaggerated care, Phillip placed the book before his daughter. Then, backing out the door, he sighed, "Well, I'll leave you with that book of his, then. Tell me if you see my pocket watch lurking around somewhere."

And finally, he was gone. Ida licked her lips, exhaling with relief. She tentatively cracked the book open. Then, she glanced up at the doorway, making sure her father really was gone. He was.

_This is the first time I've lied to my parents since I was seven._

Not able to bear reading anymore, Ida slammed the book shut. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and curled up under the blanket.

ooo

A week later, when she had finished the book, she resolved to return it to Mr. Radley himself.

Clutching The Idiot and sweating from the pressing heat, she leaned against the Radleys' tree, her eyes darting about like guppies.

_When on earth will Mr. Radley come out of the house?_

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Ida could hear the front door creak open. She stole a glance backwards. Mr. Radley, his mouth fixed in a grim line as usual, was approaching, his stride stiff and long.

With her peripheral vision, Ida watched as Mr. Radley strode through the gate.

_I have to go now._

Ida tore herself away from the tree and pattered up to meet the man.

"Mr. Radley?" she panted.

Mr. Radley paused, shooting the girl a cold glance. Ida backed up slightly.

"Mr. Radley, someone—your son, I think—lent me this book a week ago. I finished reading it, and…"

She faltered. The icy contempt glinting in his eyes was even more frightening than a display of outright anger would have been.

"_Arthur _lent this to you?" he inquired slowly. "How, may I ask?"

"I just found it in—"

"No matter," interrupted Mr. Radley.

He snatched the book from Ida's hands and promptly went on his way.

Ida ran all the way back home.

ooo

The next day, after Atticus had posed his question and Ida had promptly answered it, Ida asked the man suddenly, "Does Mr. Radley beat him?

Taken aback, Atticus blinked.

"What?"

"I returned the book to Mr. Radley today. The way he spoke about his son…"

Atticus sighed.

"Honestly, nobody knows what Mr. Radley does to him in there. But whatever he does, it certainly has worked as he planned it to."

Ida glanced back at the house.

"Atticus, Mr. and Mrs. Radley always leave their house at noon, right?

"No, only on Sundays. On other days, Mr. Radley goes alone."

"Do you think Mr. Arthur gets any reprieve on Sundays?"

Again, Atticus sighed, his gaze drifting to the crumbling house.

"God, I sure do hope so."

They both stared at the Radley place for a moment. Then, Ida smiled at Atticus tentatively.

"Well, good day, Mr. Finch."

"Good day, Ida."

He tipped his hat at her, and she smiled back at him. They both continued on their way.

ooo

The next day was a Sunday. That morning, with a book tucked under her arm, Ida wandered into the kitchen to find her mother sliding a tray out of their rusty old oven. The smell of warm bread wafted to her nostrils.

"What are you baking, Ma?" she asked curiously. "It smells lovely."

Georgina replied, "Yeast bread. I thought you'd like it."

Ida plopped down at the kitchen table and immediately whipped out her book, flipping to the page where she had left off. As she began reading, her mother brought the bread to the table on a plate.

"Now put aside that book and eat if you think the bread smells so good," chuckled Georgina.

Ida clung onto the book for several more moments, finishing the page. Then, sighing, she dog-eared her page and set it aside.

"Oh, all right. But this is the book _you_ recommended to me."

Ida tore off a piece of bread, studied it with raised eyebrows, and bit it. Her expression changed to one of surprise.

"Hey, it's good!"

"Well, it better be," Georgina sighed. "I spent all morning baking it."

Ida ended up clearing the plate in a matter of minutes.

"You want more?" her mother asked jokingly.

Ida began, "No, thank—"

She frowned, thinking.

"Actually, yes," she said quickly. "Just one more loaf."

Georgina's eyebrow went up.

"I wasn't serious; my lord, you can eat. And weren't you so eager to get back to that book?"

Nervously, Ida begged, "One more, please?"

Her mother sighed loudly.

"All right. Don't whine to me if you start feeling sick."

With exaggerated elegance, she drew another loaf out of the oven and dropped it upon Ida's plate. Then, throwing down the tongs, she bustled out of the room, muttering, "Now where on earth is Phillip? He really ought to be up by now."

As she bustled off, grumbling all the while, Ida carefully listened to her fading footsteps. As soon as the sound of them had vanished, she slid her cloth napkin on her lap. She carefully nudged the bread off the table, quickly rolling the napkin around it.

_I'll go today at noon._

ooo

"Ida! Where on earth are you?" yelled Georgina as Ida lay down on her bed, shaking. "Phillip and I are already ready for church. We won't wait—"

In a small, timid voice, Ida cut in, "Ma? May I—may I stay home today? I-I don't feel that well."

Several moments later, Georgina burst into the room.

"You don't feel well?" she asked with concern.

"N-no."

"Is it a stomach cramp from eating all that bread?"

Relieved, Ida nodded.

"Yes, it's probably from that bread. I guess you were right. I shouldn't have eaten that much."

Georgina studied her for a moment. Ida quickly looked away.

Finally, her mother told her anxiously, "Then you just rest today, all right? When Phillip and I get back from church, I'll make you a soothing tea. Is there anything you need right now?"

"No, ma," Ida mumbled.

Georgina nodded, but the concern hadn't left her eyes.

"Okay."

With one last glance back at Ida, Georgina left the room. Ida shifted uncomfortably, trembling, as she heard her mother telling Phillip that their daughter was ill and wouldn't be going to church.

_I did it_, she thought_. I lied to them again._

Once she heard the door click shut and the voices of her parents fade away, Ida struggled to a sitting position. She slowly drew out the loaf of bread from under the covers.

ooo

That day at noon, squinting as the harsh summer light scalded her eyes, Ida gazed up at the Radley house. The dark windows seemed to gape at her like hungry children's eyes.

_I'm here already. I must go in._

Ida steadied her breath and cracked open the gate. Then, she glanced back again. The homes behind her, squatting innocently across the street, looked shrunken and blurred.

_I must go in. I must._

Turning deliberately away, she pushed herself through the gate.

As she made her way through the yard, Ida glanced around. She had never realized how desiccated the grass really was. The dirt was thin and dry, like a scab. Shuddering slightly, she continued up the steps onto the porch.

She was now face-to-face with the front door.

_Here I am._

Ida looked it up and down several times. The wood was faded and chipping. Cautiously, she put her hand flat on the wood, feeling it. Then, timidly, she lifts her hand and knocked.

She leapt backwards immediately, breathing hard.

No reply.

Licking her lips, she went onto her tiptoes and leaned over, trying to see through the dark window.

"Mr. Arthur?" she called timidly. "Mr—"

At that moment, the door creaked open ever-so-slightly. Ida jumped, then reprimanded herself for being so nervous.

"Sir?" she inquired.

The door opened all the way. Ida took a few paces backwards. In its shadow was Arthur Radley.

Everything about him was worn: his pale face, his rumpled clothes. His white-blonde hair, roughly cut, was in a messy mop. His mouth was slightly parted.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Both Ida and Arthur were slightly stunned.

Ida explained finally, "Sir, I just wanted to thank you in person—for the book, I mean. So I thought I'd come while Mr. and Mrs. Radley had left. And so—well, my mother bakes fine bread, so I thought I'd bring you some."

Ida held out the bread tentatively. Arthur's eyes grew almost terrified.

"No one's visited me in ten years," he whispered finally.

His voice was husky from disuse.

"Not in ten years."

The fear in Ida's eyes was suddenly replaced by sympathy.

"Oh," she replied quietly. She pressed the bread into his hands. "Oh."

She opened her mouth to say something else, but her gaze traveled to Arthur's other hand, the one that wasn't holding the bread. Clutched in his painfully white fingers was a small knife.

_Maybe this isn't a good—_

"I whittle, ma'am," he said quickly.

"Oh."

There was an awkward silence. Then, Ida said, "I think I ought to go."

Her voice wasn't shaking anymore.

Beginning to back down the steps, she smiled at Arthur.

She didn't know exactly how it happened, but at that moment, she tripped and went flying backwards. Arthur lunged forward, grabbing her wrist just in time. As her foot crashed to the ground, her ankle twisted downwards. Ida grit her teeth, pain shooting through her leg. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Miss Graham, are you all right?" asked Arthur hurriedly.

_He knows who I am._

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied, trying to keep her voice level. "Thank you, sir. Good day."

She smiled at Arthur, turned around, and limped back down the steps.

At that point, she stumbled, but she caught herself before she fell. Sucking in a breath, she paused briefly, then continued on.

Right before she reached the gate, Arthur called softly, "Miss Graham?"

He said it so quietly that Ida couldn't hear him.

"Miss Graham?" he repeated, louder this time.

Ida turned around. Arthur was still in the doorway.

"If you're hurt, you can sit in my house until the pain goes away."

The girl paused, considering this. Arthur's expression turned pleading.

"We can share the bread."

_He's not asking out of courtesy. Arthur _needs _company._

Ida gave her consent with her eyes.

The man bashfully shuffled forward to the girl, and gently, he helped her back up the steps and through the front door.

As she was led through the house, she was struck by how empty it was. Each room had, at most, a single light fixture, which was either broken or not turned on, a couch or chair caked with dust, and perhaps a table. Everything was tattered or broken. Tiny bursts of light peeked out from beneath the dark curtains masking the windows.

Arthur guided Ida to the largest room she had yet seen. He set her down in a chair at the center table. Nothing was on the table but a tiny, lone horse carved from soap.

There were no other chairs at the table, so Arthur, after setting down the knife and bread, dragged in another one from the next room. He sat down.

"That's my carving," he told Ida shyly, gesturing at the soap figure.

Ida studied it.

"That's lovely, Mr. Radley."

"I liked it, too."

He began to unwrap the bread. Then, he looked at Ida for permission. She nodded.

"Go ahead."

Arthur pulled off the cloth, then carefully tore off a piece of the bread. He chewed it slowly and, swallowing, smiled childishly.

"It's good."

Ida beamed.

"My mother made it this morning. When she gave me some, I thought it would be a good thing to give you in return."

Arthur stiffened.

"Do many people know that you came here?"

Ida shook her head somewhat sadly.

"I thought that it'd be best to keep it quiet."

Understanding, Arthur nodded.

"Thank you."

The two chewed the bread silently for a while, with Arthur stealing occasional, timid glances at Ida.

"We never have people at our house," he said finally. "It's strange having someone else at the table."

"Thank you for having me while I rest my ankle."

Arthur continued, "I've seen you talk to that lawyer—Mr. Finch—every day for the past few months. I listened to your conversations, all of them. So I knew who you were the moment I saw you at my door."

All of Ida's former shyness returned.

"Oh. Well. Mr. Finch is a nice man."

"He seems kind. I like kind people."

By then, only crumbs remained of the bread. Ida rose.

"Well, I'd better go back home before my parents start looking for me. I doubt they're back from church yet, but I should be careful."

Without a word, Arthur, too, stood up. Putting a tentative hand on her back, he walked with her to the front door.

"Is your home far?" he asked with concern.

Ida shook her head.

"No, no. My ankle feels much better. I'll be able to walk all the way there."

She put her hand on the door handle, then glanced back at Arthur one last time.

"Well, good day, Mr. Radley—or would you prefer Mr. Arthur?"

"Arthur. Goodbye, Miss Graham."

"You can call me Ida—next time, I mean."

Arthur's eyes lit up hopefully.

"Next time?"

Ida smiled at him as a mother would smile at a child.

"Sundays, when I can miss church. How about that?"

"Sundays," Arthur repeated.

And Ida pushed open the door, glanced back at Arthur one last time, and quickly limped out of the Radley lot.

ooo

That evening, Ida lay on the couch, reading. She had managed to convince her concerned parents that she was feeling all right and that her "cramps" had gone away, so they had headed to a party, leaving her home alone. Parties weren't to Ida's taste.

As Ida was about to turn the page, a knock sounded on the door. She glanced up at the window hopefully. Then, she groaned.

_Of all people, why Stephanie?_

Ida reluctantly marked her page, set aside the book, and strode resolutely to the front door. She swung it open, planting a smile on her face.

_Now she's probably going to spend the next ten minutes trying to convince me to go to the party, just like last time._

Nevertheless, Ida greeted pleasantly, "Good evening, Stephanie**."**

Then, she looked the woman up and down. Ida had to bite back a giggle. Stephanie's outfits were growing more and more outrageous. Today, she sported a sprawling red evening dress with a tightly-hugging waist. Her hair was swept up into an elaborately twisted bun.

Noticing her studying the dress, Stephanie beamed.

"Lovely, isn't it? I got it just in time for the party at Nellie's. You won't believe how little I paid."

Ida didn't want to pursue the topic.

"If you're looking for my parents," she informed Stephanie quickly, "they're at the party. You can come back when it's over, though."

Stephanie shook her head.

"Oh, no. It's you I'd like to speak to."

Puzzled, Ida blinked.

"Me? All right, why don't you step inside? I can make you some tea, or—"

"Tea would be lovely, I'm sure," Stephanie cut in, "but I must head over. I just wanted to have a brief word with you."

Ida frowned with confusion.

"Oh. I—"

Stephanie leaned in secretively.

"Ida, did you go into the Radley house yesterday?" she whispered.

The girl froze.

_How does she—_

"Why, yes," she admitted reluctantly. "I did."

Stephanie's eyebrows arched with mock surprise, though a cruelly triumphant smile cut into her heavily powdered face.

"I thought that's what I saw. Why, my dear, what on _earth_ were you doing in there? I thought you had better sense!"

"I—"

"And did you get a glimpse of the Radleys? What were they doing? Did they speak to you?"

Ida squared her shoulders.

"My business and their business is certainly not your business," she replied sweetly. "I'm sorry if that comes as a shock to you, but I'm afraid that's the truth. Good day."

She promptly shut the door, but not too quickly to miss the shock in Stephanie's face.

Once the woman's footsteps had faded, Ida leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and breathing hard.

ooo

Ida would remember the two months that followed as the happiest of her life. Every day, during her walk, she and Atticus would ask each other the customary question. At first, they merely had short talks on the street afterward, sometimes followed by tea at each other's houses, but these casual tea sessions evolved into dinner invitations. Atticus became a frequent guest at Ida's house, and Ida a frequent guest at his.

But Ida began to visit Arthur, too. She skipped church whenever she could, bringing him some sort of pastry every time. She always went through the back door so that no one in the neighborhood would see her coming or going. Ida and Arthur didn't talk much during the first month, and she went to him mostly for his sake. After the second month, though, they began to talk.

"Arthur—" she asked once, in the middle of tearing off a piece of bread. "What does your father do to you?"

Arthur didn't seem surprised at the question. Chewing and swallowing, he confessed softly, "I never really knew how it happened. It—when I talked, he didn't reply. And so I learned to be silent. When I asked to be able to go out, he didn't reply. And so I learned not to ask."

Ida nodded slowly, thinking this over.

"And did you ever defy him?"

"Of course. But when I defied him, he still kept his silence."

"So you decided to…to…"

She gestured around vaguely. Arthur bit his lip.

"I don't really know."

Ida regarded the man. He seemed suddenly upset: he had put down his slice of bread and stopped chewing. His eyes were turned deliberately away from her.

Placing a hand gently on Arthur's back, Ida murmured, "I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur hesitantly turned his gaze back towards her. Then, he questioningly reached out his hand.

Ida's heart dropped.

_He's mistaken my friendship for love. And now he loves me in return._

She sucked in a breath. Then, she exhaled again.

_I can't break him further._

She grasped his outstretched and squeezed it tightly.

Ever since then, Ida lived behind pretenses—holding Arthur's hand when he held it out toward her, giving him tender smiles, loving only Atticus all the while. And every Sunday, one more lie joined her rapidly growing stack. Every time she stammered an excuse to avoid going to church, she felt like a hole was punched through her chest**. **She found, though, to fear and relief mixed, that it was hurting less and less.

Four months passed like this. On a Sunday morning, as Ida, still in her nightclothes, read on the couch while her parents got ready for church, she could hear them murmuring quietly. They never whispered in her earshot. They never had a need to.

Ida pricked up her ears, straining to hear. The voices faded away.

Unsettled, the girl found the place she had left off and began to read again.

_What were they saying? It sounded serious, judging by the fact that they—_

"Ida."

Ida glanced up at her book. Georgina was in the doorway, dressed in her severe Sunday best. Ida wasn't prepared for the cold, hard anger in her mother's eyes.

She opened her mouth to speak. Georgina silenced her with a look.

Icily, her mother said, "You've hardly come to church with Phillip and me during the last six months. From the second time on, we tolerated your silly excuses because we trusted you. We assumed you had a good reason for wanting to skip church. But this has been going on for too long."

"Ma—" Ida protested.

"I'm going to give you a chance now. If you tell me honestly why you've been missing church, I'll forgive you, no matter what you say."

Ida's heart plummeted.

She had known it would come someday.

And now it had.

"Mother," she managed brokenly, "I'll admit to you that I don't stay home on Sundays—there's somewhere I go. But I can't tell you about it, because you wouldn't understand."

Her mother's hard expression remained unchanged.

"Well, at least_ try _to explain it to me, so I'll know that it's not laziness or impiety that's motivating you. We raised you to be a good Christian, and we will _not_ have you losing faith."

"Mother, I don't think that I—"

"Does this have to do with your Atticus? I do appreciate that you have found a man, but you cannot consume all your time because of that. And, no matter what the circumstances, skipping church nearly every Sunday for six months is inexcusable."

Ida's eyes grew pleading.

"Please, mother, trust me. I know what I'm doing, I really do. Please."

Her mother was inexorable.

"If you won't tell me," she stated, "I will_ not_ allow you to miss church for the next year, even if you are so sick that you cannot walk straight."

_I won't be able to see Arthur anymore._

Ida's eyes widened.

"Mother!"

"You may _not_," Georgina affirmed. "Now, run along and get ready for church."

Her lip quivering, Ida sprang to her feet and fled toward the door. Then, she paused.

_What am I doing?_

The young woman turned around slowly. She steadily met her mother's frigid gaze.

Calmly and firmly, she replied, "No."

Her mother's face filled with shock.

"_No_?"

"No," Ida repeated. "There are other ways to be loyal to God than attending some silly church."

Georgina's eyes grew wide.

"Ida, you are speaking blasphemy," she warned gravely.

"And who decides what is blasphemy?" countered Ida. "These Maycomb people who are happy to wreck people?"

"Girl, what on earth are you talking about?"

"So we_ must _go by the rules of people who ruin others' lives for leisure? People who—"

Ida suddenly broke off.

"But it isn't their fault, I guess," she murmured softly. "They just don't know."

Georgina, bristling with anger, growled, "Ida, I have no idea what is going on in that little head of yours, but if you think you can get out of church with nonsensical rambling, you are wrong! No go on, get ready, and come with us!

Ida trembled with fury.

"I said _no_!"

Georgina suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Ida's arm. Ida bit back her scream of pain.

"I don't care if you said no! You are coming, and that is _final_! Final!"

For a moment, Ida looked her mother dangerously in the eye. Then, she flew out the front door quicker than her mother could catch her.

ooo

Still in her nightdress, Ida squatted, hidden by the bushes, for over an hour in the shady, verdant lot behind the Radleys', waiting for Arthur's mother and father to leave. She had nowhere else to go, no place where her parents wouldn't find her.

Every minute, she strained to hear the sound of the door creaking open, of departing footsteps. The Radley house, though, was dead quiet. All she could perceive was her own ragged breathing.

_How long have I been here, anyway? Is it twelve already?_

She thought back to her mother and father.

_What if they're worried about me? What if they think I've run off for good?_

Ida started at the thought.

_Have I?_

She almost laughed at herself.

_How on earth could I run off from Ma and Pa?_

Absently, she plucked a small leaf off a bush, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces. When she could rip it no more, Ida fed the shreds to the gentle breezes that were darting about. She gazed as they floated off like dandelion seeds.

Then, she glanced back toward the Radley house.

_Maybe I should hide somewhere nearer to the porch. That way, I can see when Mr. and Mr. Radley leave._

Deciding that it would be better than squatting cluelessly in the bushes, Ida struggled to her feet. As soon as she had, her stiff legs gave way. She flew backwards with a yelp, crashing into the bushes loudly.

_God, no!_

Ida quickly tore herself out of the leaves and twigs. Brushing herself off hastily, she glanced around wildly.

_I've got to leave now. They must have heard that in—_

As if in answer to her thoughts, the back door swung swiftly open.

Ida backed up slowly.

_Oh, lord._

At that moment, however, a timid, anxious voice called out.

"Are you all right, miss?"

_It's Arthur._

Suddenly, all the raw emotions from her argument with her mother came flooding back. Ida, leaves and twigs stuck to her nightdress, began to tremble with anger.

Arthur repeated, his concern growing, "Are you all right, miss?"

Ida looked him in the eye.

"I want to damn this county to hell."

Stunned, Arthur blinked. He sprang forward and embraced her tightly. Her face met his rumpled shirt.

Somewhat surprised, Ida pulled away.

"Look, Arthur, I'm sorry," she apologized hastily. "I don't know what came over me when I said that. I didn't mean it."

Softly, Arthur prompted, "Ida, do you want to talk about it?"

Ida, thinking, laughed quietly.

"It was nothing, really. My mother was trying to make me go to church because I've been skipping most of it over the past six months—to visit you."

Arthur frowned.

"And?"

"I tried to convince her that I had my reasons for not going, but she wouldn't hear it. We argued for a while. I didn't want to tell her that I was coming to see you, because—Arthur , she's a nice lady, but…but some of her views—well, she shares some of her views with the rest of Maycomb."

She sighed softly.

At that moment, Arthur's gaze fell on her sleeve. It was torn.

With concern, he asked, "Does she beat you?"

The girl, glancing at her sleeve as well, chuckled.

"Beat me? Oh, no. I don't know how it ripped. I think she was just grabbing me to prevent me from leaving. She won't find me. She'll never suspect that I'm at your place."

Arthur regarded her for a moment. Then, gently, he told her, "You didn't have to do this, all these months."

"No, Arthur, I..."

The girl trailed off.

The two were silent for a moment. Then, Ida turned to the man.

"Arthur," she asked suddenly, "what do you think of Atticus?"

Arthur stared at her, seemingly stunned.

"He's a nice man," he replied after a while. "And you love him, don't you?"

Ida opened her mouth to reply. Then, she turned away, biting her lip.

"Arthur, I really ought to go home. What should I tell my mother when she comes back?"

At first, Arthur was silent. Then, he said quietly, "Ida, don't come any more."

Ida blinked. Her eyes swerved to meet his.

"What?"

"You're only visiting me every day out of—out of pity, aren't you?"

Ida laughed, though some nervousness seeped through.

"No, why do you think that?"

The man didn't reply, turning deliberately away from her.

Ida pressed gently, "Oh, Arthur, quit it. You're being ridiculous."

Arthur maintained his silence. Ida's eyes filled with desperation.

"Arthur. Arthur!"

At that moment, the man, without glancing back once, fled into the house like a miserable child, leaving Ida alone.

She had no choice but to leave the house, knowing that it was the last time.

And she never saw him again.

ooo


	3. To Forget

At last, here's the final chapter. I just realized that it's exactly a year since I first posted the story—completely unintentional! What a coincidence! I really apologize for the long wait. I just couldn't get this chapter perfect, somehow. I'm pretty pleased with it now, so here it is! I hope it satisfies!

ooo

In the middle of writing a poem in her living room that afternoon, Ida picked up a slow crescendo of voices.

Her parents had come home.

Biting her lip, she leaned over to see out the window. They were just about to open the front door.

She hunched over her notebook, pretending to scribble furiously.

There was a click as the front door opened. Ida winced, glancing up furtively as her parents passed her. Finally, they were gone. She sighed with relief.

At that moment, though, Phillip poked his head in.

Ida saw him out of the corner of her eye.

Keeping her gaze trained downwards, she thought, _Leave, Pa. Leave. _

But to her dismay, Phillip spoke.

"I'm glad you're at home," he commented casually. "We were afraid you wouldn't be here when we got back."

She didn't say anything as Phillip plopped down beside her, the sofa softly sagging down. Phillip scooted closer to his daughter and slung his arm over her hunched shoulders. She still maintained her silence.

Phillip sighed.

"Will you please give me a clue about what's going on between you and your mother?"

Ida, shaking her head stubbornly, replied firmly, "No."

"Ida," coaxed Phillip, "honestly, mother was so worried about you at church, wondering where you ran off to. She thinks that you're losing respect for God."

"I'm _not_," Ida affirmed.

"Then will you please explain the meaning of all this talk between the two of you?"

Ida bit her lip, finally putting aside the notebook. She timidly glanced up at her father. "I think she's already told you about what I've told her."

Her father nodded. "Yes." Then, he frowned. "Ida, are you sure this has nothing to do with Atticus?"

She grit her teeth. "_No_," she countered edgily. "This has nothing to do with him, nothing at all. You know we only meet in the evening."

With concern, her father pressed, "I mean, are the two of you having some...I don't know, problems? Look, I don't see how this could relate to your leaving at noon, but your mother and I don't see any other reason why you'd be so secretive around us and—"

"Father," Ida answered carefully, "I'd be much obliged if you'd let me deal with this on my own."

Phillip gazed at her. His expression was gentle.

"So it _is_ about Atticus," he concluded. "You and—"

"You wouldn't understand if I told you!" Ida burst out. "You'd think that I was insane!"

Phillip stared at his daughter. "Ida, I'd never think you insane. After all, you are my own flesh and blood."

Ida turned to him with pleading eyes. "Pa, I don't think I can explain it to you now, but can you please convince Ma for me that—" She sighed. "Tell her that I was just trying to do good when I missed church."

Phillip studied his daughter. "She trusts your intentions, Ida," he answered, a question in his voice. "She just knows that you're still young and naïve. She's worried about the things others can do to you, like how Arthur Radley took up with the bad crowd from Old Sarum and got wrecked by them."

Ida's dark eyes snapped up toward her father's. "How hegot wrecked_ by _them? You believe that Arthur is innocent?"

Phillip thought. He pursed his lips.

"Ida," he conceded eventually, "there's nothing you can be sure of in this town, what with all the gossip."

"But Ma believes it," muttered Ida bitterly.

Phillip frowned. Then, abruptly, he nodded. "You're right," he affirmed. "I don't understand just yet. But I'll try to convince her, all right?"

Ida smiled tentatively. "All right."

Anxiously, he added, "Just make sure you know what you're doing, all right?"

Ida's gaze traveled to her folded hands. "It's all right," she replied quietly. "I'm not going again, Pa."

Rather than question, Phillip nodded again, slowly this time. "Well, it seems that it's the best decision, whatever you've been doing."

And finally, Phillip stood up and made his way out of the room.

ooo

The day after the next, Ida had dinner at Atticus' house. Once they had finished eating, Ida smiled, contented.

"That meal was delicious, Atticus. Your family cook is incredible."

"She is," agreed Atticus.

His expression then grew serious. "Ida, now that we've finished dinner, there's something I'd like to speak to you about."

Ida studied his eyes. They were as unreadable as always.

"Yes?" she asked cautiously.

Atticus wiped his mouth and sighed.

"Your parents have talked to me."

_What—_

The girl blinked with surprise.

"My _parents_?"

"They're worried about you—very worried. They're not used to you keeping things from them. They asked me if I knew anything about your noon activities, and that if I had anything to do with them, that I should try to keep you safe and—"

_ My parents don't trust me one bit now._

Ida looked away with shame.

"Atticus—"

Gently, Atticus cut her off. "Ida, I'm not asking you to tell me what you do at noon. I merely wanted to know what you'd like me to tell your parents. I understand that you wouldn't keep a secret unless it were absolutely necessary."

Staring at her folded hands, Ida inhaled sharply.

_ What on earth have I..._

Both of them suggested simultaneously, "Let's go for a walk."

Ida and Atticus glanced up at each other with surprise.

"I think we've reached an agreement, then," chuckled Atticus.

Without another word, they stood up, pushed in their chairs, and headed out together through the front door.

Neither of them said a word as they ambled past the nondescript rows of houses, past the blank windows that watched their passage with listless boredom. When they had turned the corner into the next block, Ida's pace suddenly slowed.

Atticus glanced at her, also slowing his stride. As they passed the first house on that street, the girl said abruptly, "Atticus, I don't think I've lied to my parents since I was around seven."

"Ever since you were seven?"

"Probably a few unimportant things here and there, but nothing like this." She was silent for a moment. Then, she continued, "That's why they got frightened when I started to act strangely. Like you said, they aren't used to me keeping things from them. I have no idea what you should tell them about my noon activities."

Ida glanced at Atticus. He was listening intently, carefully keeping his stride even with hers.

Licking her lips, Ida went on, "I think it would be best for you to tell them that you don't know anything. I don't want you to lie or something and—"

Atticus abruptly cut her off.

"Ida," he said suddenly.

She looked at him. He had stopped walking.

Halting beside Atticus, she studied his neutral face.

"Yes?"

His brow furrowed, but his voice remained calm. He turned squarely to Ida.

"I think I've found a way to assuage your parents' doubts about your activities, whatever they may be."

He paused for a moment. Then, he continued, "See, Ida, the thing is, I think this has been going on for too long."

Ida cocked her head. "What has?"

"You know," he explained, "our falsely casual airs when we talk on the street, our extremely brief meals at each other's houses, our philosophical and literary conversations that are never finished for lack of time…"

_ What does he..._

Realization struck Ida like a bullet.

_ He knows that I've also been seeing someone else._

_ Atticus wants my relationship with him to end._

Ida fought to keep the shock out of her face.

"Mr. Finch," she said slowly, carefully, sadly, "I think you're right."

Atticus' lip twitched ever-so-slightly.

"Do you really think so?"

Ida's eyes traveled to the ground. "Yes. I'm sorry."

Atticus frowned. Then, his perplexed expression was melted by a gentle smile.

"Ida," he asked, "did you think I was saying we should stop seeing each other? Why would I say that?"

Ida blinked. Her gaze snapped back up to meet his.

_So he doesn't know about—_

"Actually," Atticus said, "I was proposing something quite different."

The girl gazed at Atticus for a moment. Then, her mouth fell open.

Shocked, she asked, "Honest?"

Atticus' smile grew tender. "Honest."

Ida stared at him incredulously, a beam slowly spreading over her face.

"Well, in that case," she replied, not bothering to fight the quiver out of her voice, "I think you already know my answer."

Atticus wiped his brow.

"Oh, thank God!" he sighed.

Almost disbelievingly, the two glanced at each other and laughed. Then, linking their arms, they strode down the street to announce the news to anyone who would open their door.

Her bliss was tainted by only one thing: when she passed the Radley house, she paused for the briefest moment, searching the windows for some hint of forgiveness.

ooo

The next morning, when Ida sleepily stumbled into the kitchen, she found her parents staggering in and out with armfuls of pastries and cakes.

"Good morning, young bride," Phillip huffed, briefly pausing to smile at his daughter as he disappeared through the door.

Ida stepped backwards.

"What on earth is going on?"

Georgina chuckled, heading outside, "News gets around quickly in this town."

Ida's gaze turned to floor. Baskets upon baskets were strewn throughout the kitchen, bursting with pastries, curled ribbons, and flowers so colorful that they looked artificial.

"My lord," she murmured.

Her eyebrows raised, she let her gaze wander from gift to gift.

At that moment, her eyes fell on one. It was sitting right at her feet like an obedient dog. In the basket, peeking out from beneath a purple cloth, was a small loaf of bread. It stirred something in her, but she couldn't name what.

She peered at it for a while, wondering. Then, she froze.

_This is the type of bread I gave Arthur the first day I visited him._

Ida quivered. She glanced at the door. Her parents weren't coming in yet.

Slowly, she squatted down and took the bread into her hands. It lay innocently in her palms, wrapped snugly in its purple cloth.

Then, a piece of paper fluttered out from beneath a fold.

Heart pounding, Ida dropped the bread and quickly snatched the paper out of the air. She trembled as she unclenched her fingers, one by one. The paper had been crumpled. She set it carefully on her knee and smoothed it out.

Tears filled her eyes when she was, at last, able to read the message.

"From: the Tates."

And for a short moment, she wondered if she had to let it go.

ooo

A week later, on a cool, breezy evening, Ida and her mother sat on the porch. The needle in Ida's hand carelessly sailed up and down through a practice strip of fabric, and Georgina watched, occasionally leaning over and reprimanding her daughter's lousy skill.

As she sewed, Ida asked excitedly, "When do you think would be a good time for our wedding?"

Her mother thought. "Have you talked it over with Atticus yet?"

Smiling, Ida replied, "You know Atticus. He told me to first check with you and Pa."

Georgina recounted wryly, "Phillip and I had an autumn wedding. We thought it would be romantic what with all the leaves swirling around, but that November turned out to be particularly cold. I ended up freezing in my dress."

Ida groaned. "God, I forgot that I had to wear a dress!"

"What, did you expect that you'd be able to waltz down the aisle in overalls?"

"Those wedding dresses look so itchy," Ida grumbled.

Georgina sighed, "Well, then try wearing one in the cold. If I were you—"

At that moment, her gaze fell on Ida's sewing. Her hands flew toward Ida's.

"No, Ida, not like that!"

She guided the needle in the other direction.

"I'm never going to get this right," complained Ida. "What's the point?"

"Well, you're going to be a wife soon. You ought to learn how to sew properly."

"But Atticus proposed to me knowing that I couldn't sew! He won't mind."

"And when you have children, who will mend their clothes?"

"Ma!" Ida protested. "Don't talk about children yet!"

Georgina smiled knowingly.

Once she had reset her needle, Ida asked with all her previous excitement, "And _where _do you think we should get married? Atticus and I were thinking of a small wedding in a backyard—or perhaps no wedding at all. Just a private exchange of rings."

Her mother's eyes filled with horror.

"'A private exchange of rings'? Are you out of your mind?"

"Fine," Ida sighed. "How about…a church?"

Georgina snorted. "I thought you hated that place."

The girl awkwardly turned away and glanced back down at her sewing. Georgina, however, yanked the fabric and needle away from her. Ida glanced up at her mother timidly. Georgina's eyes were filled with fire.

"I was going to talk to you about this during dinner," she began, "while your father was present. However, since the topic has come up, I suppose we'll discuss it now."

Ida studied her mother, confused. "Ma—"

Georgina said flatly, "Stephanie told me that several months ago, she saw you going into that madhouse."

Ida began to question, but realization quickly dawned on her. "You mean..."

"Is that where you have been going for the past months? While Arthur was left alone at home?

The girl began to protest. Then, she hung her head.

"Yes, Mother," she confessed. "But I won't go any—"

Georgina's eyes widened. "What have you been doing for that insane man?"

Ida bristled. Unable to contain herself, the girl sprang to her feet.

"Mother, I want you to understand something. Arthur Radley had a horrible childhood, and now he's completely broken, but he absolutely is not insane!"

Georgina began to say something, but, with mounting anger, Ida continued, "Why do you think I didn't tell you where I was going all those months? It's because I knew if I told you I was going over to his place merely to talk with him and give him a pastry, you would I was insane myself and you wouldn't let me go again. But everything I did hasn't done any good, anyway. He was already wrecked, but I was stupid enough to think I was some Christ-figure who could save him."

Her voice softened, and she turned her eyes to her mother desperately, trying to make her understand.

Georgina, refusing to meet her daughter's gaze, told her tonelessly, "Ida, go back inside. You can finish your sewing later."

Ida gazed at Georgina for a moment, lips thinning. Then, she gathered up her needle and fabric and strode calmly and deliberately into the house.

ooo

It was evening. Their arms linked, Ida and Atticus strode down the street.

Maudie, bent over her flowers, turned around as they passed. "Hey, it's the lovers!" she called.

The two stopped.

"Good evening, Maudie," greeted Atticus, smiling.

"Good evening," said Ida.

"You both are incredibly lucky, you know."

Stephanie, too, poked her head out her window. "Oh, yes, congratulations!" she exclaimed sanguinely.

"Thank you," laughed Ida.

Atticus nodded, his smile widening, at Stephanie, then at Maudie.

"Thank you, thank you."

The couple continued walking, talking and laughing all the while.

Then Ida, mid-sentence, broke off.

They were passing the Radley house.

Atticus studied Ida, frowning.

"Ida?" he inquired, concerned. "Are you all right?"

Ida was silent for a moment before turning to face her betrothed.

"Atticus?" she asked slowly. "You remember how you proposed to me, don't you? You said it's been going on for too long?"

"Yes, I remember," he assured.

"I thought you meant—"

She bit her lip and turned squarely to Atticus. As firmly as she could, she confessed, "Atticus, I've been seeing another man for the last six months."

Atticus blinked. Even he couldn't hide the shock, his brow opening and his lower lip falling.

In a quiet yet matter-of-fact tone, Ida explained, "There is a man, a very good man. On Sundays, when I could miss church, I went to his house and brought a loaf of bread or a cake and we would talk until we had finished eating. I felt—feel—very strongly for him, but it was only friendship and pity. But no one has visited him for over ten years. And he thought I loved him. I couldn't bear to break his heart, so I tried to love him in return. I thought I was helping him. Now I know I've done the wrong thing. He realized that I loved only you all along. I've hurt him. I've wrecked him even more. And now I've lost my parents' trust and my ma thinks I'm crazy because I tried to explain it to her..." Ida trailed off. "I think you know who the man I'm talking about is," she finished.

For a long while, Atticus was silent.

"You parents won't be able to stay angry at you forever," he told her at last. "You know that. And as for Arthur..."

He trailed off. Finally, he concluded, "You can't do anything more for him now, so all you can do is forgive yourself. And sometimes, when there's nothing to be done, it's best to forget."

Atticus wordlessly took Ida's hand in his. As they continued their amble down the street, she felt half a year of guilt and secrets crumble behind her.

ooo

Summer was coming again. The weather was growing warmer, the clouds scarcer, the sky harder.

Ida gazed out the newly-cleaned living room window, chin on hands. Across the street, men and women were making their daily rounds, tipping their hats and exchanging the correct words about each others' clothing and spouses and children.

The girl stared at them for a long while.

_What if the pane really_ could _slow down time?_

Through the glass, the men had changed. They were smaller and rounder, their cheeks redder, their eyes brighter. Their programmed, even strides were broken. They pattered down the street, skipping and skittering and tripping. The women were no longer women. Braids unraveling and flying through the air, they squealed and giggled, swirling like autumn leaves past the boys.

And for a moment, Ida yearned to run out and join them. In their world, each day held an eternity. They lived for nothing but life itself.

Ida thought back to what Atticus had said.

_ Sometimes, when there's nothing to be done, it's best to forget._

And before her, the porch of the neat, prim house sagged. The brown grass' tousled hair shot up wildly.

The time when Atticus said that was one of the only times he had been wrong.

ooo

And that's the end of Children Once. Please tell me what you think. I may add an epilogue if you guys want one—who knows? Maybe I'll write a whole new story about Ida's later life... If so, or if you'd like me to write an epilogue, what kinds of events would you like me to cover? Thank you so much for all the reads and kind reviews! I really appreciate it!


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